Gray Water
by Sam-Sam-Samedi
Summary: Strength will bring them together, just as weakness tore them apart. Anna and Kratos. Rating may be subject to change.
1. The world began with Origin, all alone,

**Title:** Gray Water

**Summary:** There is a legacy in her hands—it is a child, whose lifeblood is her own. Strength will bring them together, just as weakness tore them apart. [Anna and Kratos. Multi-chapter.]

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**AN:** To warn you, _Gray Water_ is intended to be a rather dark fic. I mean, _very dark_. Anna will not be marrying Kratos, nor will they meet in the ranch. (I'm sorry, but I abhor this fandom trope. /: From a realistic standpoint, it's damn near ludicrous; Kratos claimed he returned to Sylvarant _upon cutting his ties with Yggdrasil_. This implies that he had already betrayed him, which nullifies any potential involvement within Human Ranches. They would have reported him to his Lord.)

Also: don't own anything, Namco does, etcetera. Oh, and **Anna just turned 30**, and Kratos is . . . old, obviously. :D;;

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"Missus Anna," the child was bleak and his voice cold, a woman kneeled at his side and purring tender condolences; creamy skirts billowed near her heels, a thick line of brown hair at the breeze's mercy, "why did Martel take my father away—my dad didn't do anything wrong!"

"We are part of a story, and everyone must go eventually," she spoke gentleness and wisdom, "The earth is our mother, the goddess Martel is her apparition—"

"But," he interjected smoothly, Anna's gaze turning on him, "She is also part of that story." Towering at a good six feet, he stood upright and alert, a mane of auburn tumbling against his jaw line—dying red sparked in his somber eyes, the brown swirling like fire and embers.

Her smile was transient, and she answered with a playful, "Aren't all mothers?" He shrugged his compliance, the children coming to a slow, steady silence as he cast a shadow across their secret playgrounds. Anna rose to her feet as the braver ones approached the stranger, boys eagerly motioning to the sheath attached at his hip, and murmuring a slew of, "It's real, hey! Are you a militia member?! A mercenary!"

"Don't be rude," she chided easily, her younger charges remaining dutifully at her side and clinging to her dress's hems, "I hope they aren't troubling you."

"Boys will be boys, I imagine," His reply was unassuming, curious onlookers scattering as he pulled the sword free, "Keep your hands at your sides." Battle scars ran the length of its blade, climbing up the handle from years of use— the hilt winked sterling silver under the sunlight and, despite their awe, they took his warning at face value and kept itchy fingers to themselves.

Anna laughed before motioning that he tuck it away again, "You're all lucky that he's so willing!" There was a ripple of disappointment from the boys as it slid back into its home, his movements quick from decades of practice and natural talent. "_Now_, aren't your thanks in order?" Appreciation was chorused from what felt like every corner of the world, the man left to piece together his blank front as they waved their good-byes and mimicked soldiers fighting schoolgirls branded as 'Desians'.

He was hesitant, his attention again on her, "Your name is Anna?"

Anna nodded, breaking into a soft grin, "Yes. And you are?"

"Kratos Aurion," he managed coolly, crossing his arms and feigning apathy, "I am here escorting a pilgrimage from Palmacosta."

"Oh," she was impressed, and her smile vigilant, if not glowing, "That must be very good money. I can't imagine fighting the monsters outside our cities— it's a specialized trade, and in high demand. We live in such troubled times."

"Something along those lines," he asserted, stoic and indifferent, "You also own an item shop, if I recall." She was caught off guard by the sudden change in subject, her hand brought to her chin as she studied his face.

She forced a timid, "Oh! Yes, that was you! I'm sorry . . . and you were kind enough to move my supplies, and so careful—" Kratos' lips quirked, nostalgic of a brief spell of amusement, and Anna worked to regain her usual serenity.

"I prefer to know I don't have a memorable face, and it's of no consequence," he insisted warmly, leaving her baffled at his frankness, "So you are a schoolteacher. It's rare to . . . I presume your husband is in the militia?"

The muscles in her face tensed, smile drooping like a wilted flower, "Yes, once, but he is . . . dead." There was a prolonged, diseased quiet hung between the pair that whispered like filtered noise in her skull, old ghosts settling comfortably behind her eyes.

He choked a simple, "My apologies."

"My Aion died a hero," she managed, cloaking her misery behind a cheerful guise, "I can't begrudge him that—he would be sad, and, besides, I am not the only one persecuted by the Desians."

"Murdered by Desians," he repeated, saturnine, and bowed his head in respect for the dead, but Anna cut him off with a composed wave.

"Aion is pleased to have your sympathies, I'm sure," her voice was low and Kratos let his gaze linger, aware of her obvious concern, "Surely such seriousness isn't needed here, though. These poor things . . . so young and already playing war games."

"Such is the fate of a world without a Chosen," he stated prophetically, Anna dwindling to silence as fresh wounds reopened—Lady Helia caused no regeneration, and stood as another victim left fallen at the feet of the tower. Kratos arched an eyebrow in response, turning to look at the spectacle of a stage laid out in front of him: the boys stripped a fellow of his makeshift dagger—a stick sharpened with a stone, now fractured at its heart with pieces strewn across the cobblestone—and chanted that he was a thief, forcing him to his knees while proclaiming that, "Stealing is a sin! The sinners must die!" They took their places as actors, and were eager to accept their roles.

"It's so tragic. . . That this is the kind of land they should be born into," her voice was devoid of emotion, hopeless in its fatalism, "Where children can disappear like that." His demeanor was heavy, a dark implication creeping beneath his indifference, and he clutched his hilt; Mithos' idealism once spanned beyond caricatures of Martel's dreams and false hopes. His utopia was beautiful then—an innocent, tentative possibility that had swayed stone cold hearts to reconsider their rivalries.

A century of truth revealed it a fool's paradise, where only the misguided waited to rid themselves of pain. Neither was capable of escaping their self-made web of deceit; he wanted to believe in his delusions then, and, in fear of the double-faced carnivore masquerading as Mithos, he fled. Without the Goddess, where was morality, and what would these children believe in— would the world fall to total ruin, and destroy itself, as when Mithos lost his Martel?

"Are you angry?" Anna began sympathetically, reluctant to pry, "You're very quiet."

"No," he affirmed, powerless to shake his agitation, "I simply regret the Chosen's misfortune on her journey."

"Yes," it was barely beyond a whisper, lost and empty, "May the Goddess Martel protect her future descendants." Kratos grimaced, and found he was unable to force feed her cynical rhetoric.

"Indeed," he finished darkly, too old to rob his cadence of its bitter edge, "For whomever that next Chosen might be." There was a comical element to humanity's ignorance—he knew that coffins lined the treacherous insides of their Tower of Salvation, their dead bodies nourishment for the beast's belly. _'All life is born from death.'_ Spirtua's scriptures did not lie, as she was haunted by the phantom of her grandmother's face as it spun in weightless freefall below Mithos' stage. _'Such is the rite of the Chosen.'_ The mana lineage was alive only to bring Martel's ghost back from its grave.

"Kratos," Anna declared, and he was pleased to see that he didn't unnerve her, "Thank you for being so kind to my Luin."

"What?" He asked, taken aback as she smiled, "I don't understand."

"The food, gels," she mumbled, brimming with silent cheer, "There were more than I ordered, and I can tell. Thank you." Kratos made no move to correct her, and opted to instead tread carefully—it was foolish to expose himself for his transgressions merely to bring light to a pretty face. The caravan was attacked by a Renegade brigade, who, exploiting their resemblance to Desians, demanded their supplies be restocked prior to their departure. He had obliged their threats, drawn his sword, and left them for dead on the roadside; this garnered him a reputation as neither a monster nor a hero, rumors buzzing behind his back about how he and his counterparts raided the 'Desian bastards' camp.

"Then the traders made a mistake," he insisted casually, Anna wounded by his disregard, "It's best not to assume others have good hearts."

She laughed, and sang a passive, "If you insist, Kratos. I think that most do, though—our townspeople are united by their suffering."

"Humans are weak creatures," his old diseases crept into his brain, "They do nothing until there are no more opportunities for pretense, and then they kill their saviors out of 'justice'." It was the fate of martyrs and revolutionaries, just as Martel was punished for embracing the role of heroine. No man put the blame on himself, but rather the world that brought him there.

"I don't believe that's true," Anna's voice was strong, and she slipped into shadow as she made to chase after her students, "There are good people, like these children and the Lady Helia—we must choose to shape ourselves in their images."

"As innocents?" Kratos scoffed, pretentious and doubtful, "What of those who are far beyond redemption?"

"They choose to do nothing," it stirred something inside him, and the lines between good and evil seemed to blur, "And they are the product of their own senselessness."

A smile tugged at his lips, and Kratos wondered why there were traces of kindness in Mithos' makeshift hell, "Is that so."

"Yes," she reaffirmed genially, nodding her farewell, "Goodbye. It was a pleasure meeting you!" A pleasure, she'd said, but there were no such frivolities for a fallen angel of justice. He listened as the fountain sung in the background, his reflection—a serpent wearing a three-thousand year old snakeskin with its eyes searching for new prey, for a man as great as Mithos, to splinter and idolize again—breaking beneath the surface.

_'Man, whatever his race,'_ he thought gravely, refusing to acknowledge the animal looking back at him, _'was not born for heroism, or for gods.'_

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**AN:** Well, give me some feedback, if you so dare! :D I will greatly appreciate it. (Uh, this is kind of . . . a spur of the moment fanfic, so I don't necessarily know when I'll update it.)


	2. and with Luna, he made stars

**Title:** Gray Water

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**AN:** You know, Tsu, you're exactly right. XD; Thanks much for your review. All formalities aside, the following chapter is primarily Kratos-centric.

Also, I thought I should note that** in this, Kratos had been living in Palmacosta for two to three years prior to the Desian occupation, and thus no one suspects him. **

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Infancy was borne of time, as was growth, adolescence-- he was the consequence of being infinite, of treading beyond a realm belonging to gods and demons alone. He could remember when there were no mountains shadowing the Slyvaranti plains, when they were rolling hills and crags painting the sunset. The land changed when its sister disappeared; was made _wild_ in retaliation, Kratos mused. The earth was shattered into two separate dimensions, and its glaciers stolen, its climate savage and fierce.

Flanoir disappeared, and the currents shifted with nowhere to run to, while icewater trickled into Tethe'alla's seas some worlds away. Where he saw two skies-- their shy stars pulling behind the clouds, blushing argent behind a curtain of navy and whispering grays--, he could recall the years when there was just one, its many constellations rippling and twirling in unison. There was only Mother Luna strung across the heavens then, hanging in her silent orb until Origin put them to bed. _'. . . Tales,' _he thought, and paganism and polytheism. The things Mithos saw no meaning in now, and the stories Martel loved to croon at the fireside then.

He could remember few faces-- they blurred into one these days, a remnant of the age below his eyes-- but their's were burned into his skull. Mithos made himself god, and Kratos had never left his side until he caught word of the work camps veiled in the mists and forests. He had been deserving of his title then, and carried himself with all the nobility of a saint while tied to a romanticism that strangled him. Kratos could still hear his promise to that table of fools melt into the summer air, as sharp and self-assured as it was millennias ago.

_'His pledge . . . to save the entire world . . .'_ he thought brokenly as the bugs murmured from their pools. It was a brilliant-- and _terrible_ thing to say. No man he met was immune to the arrogant confidence Mithos prided himself on, and the weaker felt compelled to bow before greatness. He understood that he could no longer value heroes, as glory gave them birth before virtue. His student, innocent and afraid once, could kill more than their war did and Kratos would lay his head down to perserve the hope he embodied.

Yuan, Mithos, and Martel were more important than life itself when he was young. They came from fractured families with no names or blueblood to cling to, but tempted him into their company when he was too childish to want it. He had been born a noble, the would-be Duke of Gaoracchia, and a son to Tethe'alla's beloved field marshall-- he wore his prejudices with pride, and sneered when they opposed the crown. He chided that it was a failure's argument, and to defy his military was to spit on the fatherland. Then, in the heart of Volt's tower, he was a witness as Mithos swore his oaths to the Summon Spirits, and saw the child grin in the face of a god's anger. It was a challenge against heaven, and Yuan sprang to his side before he abandoned him to fight alone. The battle was breathtaking as it screamed through the field and tore into the mountainside, comparable to the things of miracles-- Kratos was never a teacher to him. Power was a birthright, and not a title passed down through the generations. He saw no meaning in his post, home, teachings, and _knew_ Mithos was a boy who could save the world. Protecting him became his life's calling, and it was a privilege to walk at his side, to see all his accomplishments as they unfolded.

Their mannerisms, smile, voices, and tears played like a mad lullaby while he counted those stars under the safety of nighttime, and he roused himself to find some shelter at the city's outskirts. There were no streets lamps littering the cobblestone roads-- they were a luxury that only the flourishing world and Cruxis' angels held claim to--, and the daytime borough hazed to a black hollow, writhing where webs of moonlight weaved with shadow. He learned early that sleep settled into the busy streets like something alien, leaving quiet to creep between the alleyways and deep into the households guarding Luin's gates as he haunted the empty grounds. Even the water went deathly still once its residents tucked inside their homes.

The strange, unearthly tease of midnight was nostalgic; he had lived and died in Derris Kharlan, a heaven where nothing breathed. Its angels had no interest in food or necessity-- pain, feeling, and sense were foreign to them. A man who could not eat would not grow crops, sow fields, or hide when the rain washed fresh seedlings into the valley. Without death to loom along their path, there was no demand for life. They feared nothing except what ignorance laid below them, and Kratos had walked behind their walls for so long that love and labor were akin to children stories. Danger had long since returned to the declining world, but it had been nearly one-hundred fifty years since he'd seen its familiar spin of green hills and frosted mountaintops and he'd forgotten what their tragic systems created. Unlike his last descent, it was difficult work to be a mercenary now: it held too much status. Others wanted his help and not his fee.

"Night stroll, eh? It's bad luck, stranger. You'll anger Slyph's fairies in the hills," the voice was deep, with a grin coloring the old man's face and brightening his milky gray eyes, "Come in. Have a drink."

Kratos' response was suspicious, "I am afraid that I am not in the position."

"No, no," he insisted coolly, and rested his crippled arm on his walking stick, "It's nothing vicious. I've just never seen someone sleep out in these monster infested parts like you did, let alone fight the bastards. You're the talk of the town, sir."

Kratos paused, folding his arms, "Are you speaking of the Desians or the wolves . . ."

"Why," he whispered musically, attention brought to his raid of the Renegades, "Both, sir."

". . . And so," he said simply, amused at his candid approach, "I've become someone to put on display."

"That's a cynic's way of putting it," the man chirped, cheerful as he wobbled back into the barlight, "But people are curious about you. So, aye. A free drink for the brave young mercenary."

"Well," he finished sourly, stalking inside-- talk rumbled from the corners and crevices, nameless faces crowding the tables as they whispered he close the door before the sound drifted out, "Given that it has been outlawed, I cannot necessarily deny your offer--"

The old man laughed his agreement, "You've got a thirst? Haha, should've expected, considering all your silence! That's good-- the best kind of hireling. You might have been born in Palmacosta? They're natural drinkers."

Kratos weighed his answer, before managing a dark, "Yes." He was no friend to the truth these days, and had arrived there as the Desians swarmed it like a plague of rats. He could recall the screams vividly enough to convince any man why he chose to keep to himself.

"Figures that the rich get the pick of the litter. Ah, but," he muttered tiredly, reaching for a mug hung from the ceiling as the bottles glittered amber and blood reds, "Hmm, you came near the time of the occupation. That would explain why we seem to have a higher head count-- brought some women and children in with the lady's cargo. You're a strange man to bring them here, though-- putting that aside, it's your business, not mine, stranger. I hope you know an _admirable _salesperson who stole a bottle or two from his stores."

Kratos smirked and arched an eyebrow, "Like yourself, I'd imagine. . ."

"Clever, clever," he mumbled, the brandy filling his glass in droves, "We all need a fine old Luin-style whiskey to keep us sane. Brewing it in my basement is a family legacy. _'And my father did it, and his father did it.'_ You can't deny an old, broken man his pleasures."

"You have spirit enough for all of us," a boy-- narrow-eyed, with freckles under his blonde bangs-- called from the stairwell, his glare bitter and aimed to kill. "When you're ready to risk the townspeople. . . pleasure has a high price, _Sir_."

"Regin," he growled and set the bottle high on his line of hooks, its whiskey shaking, "Pardon the fool, friend. This kid-- he's my wife's, but he doesn't come with the cheating woman's nice mouth, I'm afraid. Please, enjoy your drink."

Kratos took his words at their surface as a girl-- waitress, he noted mutely, with a head of ginger curls brushing her uniformed shoulders-- hung her head and heaved a sigh, "Idiots. Really, he doesn't even ask your name? Sorry, Ol' Toto may be like that sometimes, but he's a good guy. A bit scummy about women every once in a while, but what man isn't."

"I would like to think myself," his response was dry, and her smile drooped.

"Haha, good for you, sorry," she managed curtly, covering her blunder with a hurried apology, "My name is Clementia, but I prefer Clement. You were very kind to Anna before. That's fine treatment, sir--?"

"Kratos," he forced stiffly, preoccupied with the handle-- it was full to the brim, as though they had a mind to drown him in it, and keeping the alcohol in its prison was a chore. Part of him was antagonistic, and reminded that he had lost his claims to intoxication or false euphoria.

"Anyway, that Anna doesn't usually talk much about strangers. No one here does, obviously-- we don't get as many anymore, because who travels with the Desians around?" Clementia explained matter-of-factly, her words jumbled, "You're from Palmacosta, so you probably don't like the country atmosphere. A few hundred folks means everyone knows one another, after all."

He made no effort to answer, working to down whatever was left, and knew it was a wonder that Luin was as hospitable as it was in the past, still talkative and embracing to even the somber passer-by. Plague, torture, and murder left them smiling at the future-- optimism proved something sinister in its own way. Hence, he thought gravely, all this need for drink.

"Desians pilfer good wine!" One yelled drunkenly, arms thrown out as the chair groaned beneath him, "Damn the Desians and their taxes on our beers!"

"Oh, quit that! Tch." She waved away her growing throng of customers, all eager to be involved in their 'stranger's' welcome. "Forget them, sir. They're all _drunk, loud,_" she shot, her voice as dangerous as acid, "fools!"

"Clement, you're a rowdy girl yourself!" It neared a catcall from the room's back, a circle of grins spreading like disease.

Her patience was running as thin as his whiskey, and she turned the other cheek to their insults, "Yes, _I know_, of course. Dear Martel, what did I do for thi-- But, Anna has been quiet since her daughter was taken by the black sickness, and right after her poor husband got his head stuck on that post as a warning. . ."

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**AN:** I'll have Anna tell you the rest, of course. Review. :D


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